


He Sees You When You're Sleeping

by WhatLocked



Series: It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas! [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Christmas hats, I promise, Involuntary Nocturnal Emissions, Kidnapping & Imprisonment, M/M, Masturbation, Men finally getting their act together, Merry Christmas, Mycroft is just really fed up!, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Wistful Blow Jobs, but it's for a good cause, multiple POVs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:59:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12971247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: After the events of Sherrinford, Mycroft hasn’t been able to stop monitoring his brother and his former flatmate.  The protective streak, he once thought he had control of, was now overriding all logical thought.  There was only one way he was going to be able to get it back under control.  Those two idiots were going to have to look after each other.  Which is what they should have been doing, if their nighttime activities were anything to go by, all along.





	1. You'd Better Watch Out

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something deep and meaningful and not just what equates to PWP, but, then this happened and well...Merry Christmas everyone!

~~~~~~~~~~  
  


Mycroft knew it was wrong.  It wasn’t like he wanted to be doing this.  If Sherlock ever found out, Mycroft would never hear the end of it, and his brother would ring Mummy.  But he couldn’t help it.  He was stressed and to be fair, his brother was the cause of that stress, so in a way, there was no real reason to feel guilty.  And really, how would Sherlock even know.  It wasn’t like he was there to witness Mycroft doing something so foolish, and just when their relationship was starting to even out once more.  

Mycroft bit his bottom lip, pinching the delicate skin between his upper and lower, left central incisors, thinking it through, trying to talk himself out of it.  

“Oh, for god sake” he huffed, finally making a decision.  He was a grown man, for crying out loud.  He ran the British Government.  And he was alone in his office at eleven thirty at night.  No one was going to know.  

With that decided, Mycroft reached over to his desk and slid the small china plate forward and helped himself to the second half of the Christmas pudding his secretary had brought him in that afternoon.  

Glen was a marvel at baking.  If he had his way he would be bringing Mycroft in something every day, and if Mycroft had his brothers metabolism, he’d let him, but alas, Mycroft didn’t have Sherlock’s metabolism and he had made it very clear to Glen, the first time he brought in a lemon angel food cake for Mycroft to eat, that he was not to bring in any more baked foods for him to eat. 

Thankfully, Glen had adhered to this rule, except for at Christmas, Easter and on Mycroft’s birthday and Mycroft just wasn’t strong-willed enough to refuse on those days.  But the pudding he had been given that morning had been larger than a standard serve and Mycroft had been strong enough to only eat half of it, prepared to give the other half to Jane before she left.  Unfortunately there was a sudden influx of problems with a minor Royal and then the travel arrangements and security issues to the  meeting with the Americans in two months time needed adjusting and then there were seating problems with an upcoming charity banquet in Brussels - to be honest, so long as it wasn’t that awful smelling woman from Italy, he didn’t care who he sat next to. 

By the end of it all, Jane had gone home and the other half of the pudding was still sitting on his desk, waiting to be eaten.  So that was what he did, and while he did it, he brought up the security cameras to 221 B Baker Street.

Since the debacle at Sherrinford, Mycroft hadn’t been able to relax.  His need to protect his brother grew and had extended out to Doctor Watson and his daughter as well.  

_ “This is a private matter.” _

_ “John stays.” _

_ “This is family.” _

_ “That’s why he stays.” _

Sherlock had been right.  John Watson was family.  He always had been. It had just taken Mycroft seven years to see it.

Once upon a time, his controlling urge to look out for his brother had been manageable.  A few times he was unable to stop the train wreck that had been his brother's life, but he was aware of it and could step in after to fix it.  After Eurus that control had started to manage him.  He had become aware that he hadn’t done everything in his brother’s best interest.  He had made mistakes that had almost cost him his brothers, and John’s, life.  He was not going to make those mistakes again.  

It was why he personally oversaw the security footage of both of their flats, plus the clinic where John worked, the morgue at Bart’s, Rosie's daycare centre and the homicide division at New Scotland Yard, plus various other places that the two liked to visit.  

It was why he was viewing the living area of 221B Baker Street and starting to wish he had finished eating before viewing.

 


	2. You'd Better Not Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Mycroft witnessed in the security footage.

~~~~~~~~~~

The living room of 221B was as chaotic as it usually was, but to be honest, wasn’t as chaotic as it once was.  Since they had redecorated, after the patience grenade had rendered the flat uninhabitable and had almost killed them, Sherlock had kept the clutter to carefully selected areas.  There was still random piles of pages and folders along with odd pieces of brick-a-brack just placed in no discernable order, but it was contained and not where small toddler hands could get to it.  There was also a Christmas tree, placed in front of the window.  The presence of a tree wasn’t unusual but the size and quality of decorations were.  It was so much more than what his brother had allowed John to put up while they were living together.  It was the many lights that were on the tree, as well as the ones strung over the mantel and around the mirror, that lit up the room enough for Mycroft to observe his brother, stretched out on the couch, asleep.

Mycroft let out a weary sigh.  Why his brother bothered having a bed was beyond him.  He very rarely used it - usually when someone forced him into it, like the petulant child he so often acted like.  Usually, that person was John, but sometimes you just didn’t say no to Martha Hudson, either. 

Mycroft used the small dessert fork to break off another piece of pudding and politely spooned it into his mouth as a groan left his brother’s throat.  NIghtmares again.  They had plagued him as a child but back then, Mycroft could comfort him.  

After Serbia they had resurfaced, taking on a new form.  John back in his life, as well as Mary, seemed to dampen them, but Sherrinford had brought new dreams to the surface, along with old ones that Mycroft had hoped would never resurface again.

Mycroft watched, helpless as his brothers head thrashed on the cushion and his back arched.  

‘ _ It must be a bad… _ .’ he started to think before his thoughts were cut off by Sherlock crying out and startling awake, panting.  

Quickly, Mycroft shut down the video feed.  That cry of John’s name was not one of distress.  Quite the opposite in fact and something that Mycroft would have been happy never to hear come from his brother's mouth.  His brother, who snubbed all ideas of romantic relationships.  

Mycroft shouldn’t have been surprised.  If anyone was going to pull these feelings out of Sherlock, it was most definitely going to be John.  

Mycroft pushed his laptop away and the plate of cake with it.  He no longer had much of an appetite.

~o~

Sherlock knew it was a dream.  Only in his dreams, and his wildest ones at that, would John look at him in that way.  That way he had looked at Sherlock so many times, but with more fire.  With more hunger.  So, it had to be a dream, but a dream that Sherlock was happy to continue, despite the emptiness he would feel upon waking up.

 

_ “Sherlock.” _

_ Sherlock lifted his head from the couch and looked blearily at the man in the doorway.  His first thought had been to wonder why John was there.  He had said he was going to pick Rosie up and go home for a much-needed sleep.  Sherlock hadn’t blamed him, it had been a long case. _

_ But those thoughts didn’t get very far because John was looking at him, like John wanted to devour him.  It was that look that made Sherlock realise this was all a dream.  Despite it not being real, Sherlock still felt exposed.  _

_ He went to wrap his dressing gown around him tighter, embarrassed, not at Johns attention, but at not knowing what to do with it, only to find that he wasn’t wearing his dressing gown.  In fact, he wasn’t wearing anything at all.  That was the second clue that this was all a dream.  He had learnt his lesson about falling asleep naked on the couch when his parents made an unexpected visit a few years back.  He was rather disturbed at the fact that his mother had been happily sitting in John’s chair, reading the paper but the fact that his father had made himself scarce in the kitchen, was the much-needed relief that he had needed after his mother  _ tsked _ him and told him to stop being silly - it never bothered him when he used to run around naked and wiggle it at everyone when he was three. _

_ “John?” Sherlock finally answered, his hands doing a poor job of providing himself with some modesty as he pushed all thoughts of his parents aside.  Now was not the time.  _

_ “God, you’re gorgeous,” John said, his voice a husky whisper, as he took a step forward.  And then another one, and another, until he was standing above Sherlock. Looking down at him with pure adoration in his eyes. _

_ “John,” he said again.  Apparently, every other word in his vocabulary had made itself scarce.  John didn’t seem to mind, though.  He just smiled more and slowly lowered himself to his knees.   _

_ “I have wanted you for so long” he murmured to Sherlock, leaning over and nuzzling the side of his neck.  Sherlock tilted his head to the side to allow John more access. _

_ “Then have me” Sherlock gasped. _

_ Within seconds, John too was naked, straddling Sherlock’s hips, leaning over, his elbows resting on the armrest of the couch, above Sherlock’s head, his face mere centimetres over Sherlocks.  _

_ Sherlock glanced down, trying to glimpse the only part of John he had never seen, but their bodies were too close together, so he glanced back up to see the smirk on John’s lips grow wider. _

_ “All in good time,” he said and then leant down to kiss Sherlock. _

_ This kiss was hot and wet and desperate.  It was lips and tongues and teeth and Sherlock felt that there was too much room between them.   _

_ He brought his hands around John and placed them on his backside.  It was as firm as it had looked and Sherlock had seen this part of John’s anatomy, just once, when John had dropped trou to create a diversion in one of their cases, but that was a story for another time.  Now, Sherlock was arching up, closer against John’s body and John was thrusting his hips.  Not much, but enough to provide friction where Sherlock oh, so desperately needed it.   _

_ Johns kisses moved from Sherlock’s mouth and across his cheek.  They continued down his neck and Sherlock could feel a tension growing in his gut as John’s lips reattached themselves to his neck again.   _

_A groan left his mouth as his head writhed against the couch cushion.  He was desperate for something, he just didn’t know what.  He had everything he wanted and yet it wasn’t enough.  Another groan rolled up his throat as John’s fingers pinched his left nipple and then, with a particularly hard thrust, Sherlock arched his back and woke suddenly with_ _John’s name on his lips and a wet mess in his pants._

 

Sherlock flopped back onto the couch, panting, exhausted, one arm hanging over the edge of the couch, his body warring between blissed out and utterly disappointed.  In the end, it resigned itself to the fact that the dreams were all he was going to get and got up and headed towards the bathroom.  The last thing he wanted was to wake up in the morning with dried semen sticking his pyjamas to his body.

 


	3. You’d Better Not Pout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, once again, regrets viewing security footage, this time at the Watson’s flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have been following this fic. Your kudos and comments have been encouraging. Apologies that this next chapter has taken so long but my computer died. It was reported back to me yesterday that it is going to take longer than expected to fix, so I am having to do all of the rest on my phone. Apologies for any typos or formatting errors and a big Kudos to those who do all of their typing on their phone. I didn’t realise just how much it sucked until I had to do it.  
> Anyway’s, here it is, chapter 3.

~~~~~~~~~~

  
Mycroft was concerned. The Watson’s flat was in complete darkness. The kitchen and living room were devoid of all light, including the Christmas lights that were usually placed on every evening. The hall light was also out and while Mycroft had not gone as far as putting a camera in John’s bedroom or bathroom, it was clear that no light was coming from those rooms either.

  
The camera in the child’s room was dark, although there was small snuffled breathing sounds that indicated the baby was asleep in her cot, where she should be at 11:45 at night.

  
Mycroft knew John was not in bed as he left his door and Rosamund’s door open while they slept, and both doors were shut.

  
The cameras outside the building were in working order, but he would have to send an email to Rogers, to make sure they hadn’t been tampered with.

  
He flicked the security footage back to the living room, and was just about to call for the security detail that he had set up near the flat, to go and check, when he heard a noise coming from the speakers on his laptop.

  
The groan that sounded through the dark was low and pained. Automatically, Mycroft lifted the receiver on his desk phone and hit 04. On the second ring, it answered. Not good enough.

  
“Action 3 at prime location. Priority…”

  
Mycroft stopped speaking.

  
It was then that a car drove past the flat, it’s headlights temporarily lighting up the room in a dull, yet quick light, that Mycroft could make out a shape on the couch. A shape that was not, at all, in any danger.

  
“ _Mmm_. _Sherlock_ ” followed by a gasp, came through his speakers.

  
“Ignore the order, false alarm” he said into the phone somewhat weakly and hung up, as he slammed the lid of his laptop shut.

  
~o~

  
John tried to push the image away.

  
_Sherlock, soaked, his already skin tight clothes, clinging to his body, his curls, plastered to his forehead, looking fucking sinful._

  
It wasn’t right to be thinking that. His friend had been verging on the edge of Hypothermia, shivering, yet still looking extremely annoyed. That, and Johns wife had been dead for less than a year.

  
The image persisted, only what had, in reality, been a sopping wet Sherlock Holmes, holding a hissing and spitting cat, which looked as equally drowned and annoyed, turned into something far less realistic.

_Sherlock dropped the cat and took a step towards John._

  
_John didn’t need to question Sherlock’s actions. He knew what the man wanted. It was the same thing he wanted. He could see it in Sherlock’s intense stare._

  
_“Sherlock” he uttered. It was permission. It was agreement. It was confession._

Knowing that this was wrong, so very wrong, John still laid back on the couch and tentatively, his hand slid down his body and cupped his genitals through his pyjama bottoms. He was more than half-hard already, just at the thought that Sherlock would ever want him, like that.

  
Slowly, his palm rubbed over the bulge, as he guiltily continued his fantasy.

_Sherock grasped Johns shoulders and, without hesitation, bent his head down and kissed him. With just as much urgency as he was getting from the kiss, John pushed forward and kissed the other man back._

_Sherlocks hands slid down Johns arms and wound around his waist, pulling him closer and John could feel how much Sherlock wanted him, digging into his hip. He groaned into fantasy Sherlock’s mouth._

A groan left his lips as his hand slipped under the material of his pyjamas, his fingers wrapping around his erection and started to stroke.

  
It had been a while since he had allowed himself to do this, and judging by the amount that he was already leaking, it wasn’t going to take long.

 _Sherlock dropped to his knees and within seconds had Johns belt undone and the bottom and zip on his jeans open. As John imagined Sherlock nuzzling Johns cock through his pants_ _John hummed out_ _“Mmm. Sherlock.”_

A gasp escaped his lips, as he let his fingers extend down, on a down stroke, to brush over his sack.

Awkwardly, using is free hand, he pushed his pyjamas down his hips, to mid-thigh and kept stroking, holding back any verbalisation.  The last time he had done this, he had loudly cried out, waking up Rosie.

John continued to stroke himself with his left hand while using his right to fondle his balls, squeezing and releasing in time with his strokes, the fantasy continuing to play out in his head.

_Sherlock’s nimble fingers pulled Johns pants down in one swift move and in another, his mouth enveloped Johns cock, swallowing him down to the root._

_”God...Sher...” John choked out as his fingers weaved through wet curls and tight lips drew up his length before sliding back down again._

In his fantasy, Sherlock’s mouth moved in time with Johns hand, his suction increased when Johns grip tightened. A small sound, more desperate than anything else, sounded in the back of Johns throat as he imagined Sherlock humming his own pleasure and it was with that thought, the thought that Sherlock wanted to do this to John, with him, that sent him over the edge. With a muffled cry, John came, warm and spilling over his hand and t-shirt.

For a few moments, John lay as he was, spent and breathless, until the brief bliss turned into shame and disappointment.

He knew it would. It always did. With the release came the reminder that Sherlock would never want him, in that sense. Sherlock didn’t do sexual, or even romantic, relationships. John would only ever be, Best Friend.

It would have to do.

With a frustrated pout and feeling  worse than he did when he sat down on the couch, John got up and made his way to the bathroom to clean up and change his top. He then went and checked on his daughter and went to bed.

 


	4. I'm Telling You Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's plan begins.  
> Neither Sherlock nor John are impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies for any mistakes. Typing on the phone is still sucky.   
> Again, thanks for reading and hopefully the rest will be up before Christmas!

~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft had had enough.  Over the past three nights he had witnessed things he had not particularly wanted to witness, and all because he had the pleasure of knowing the two most stubbornly ignorant men in England.

Seeing what he had seen in his brothers and Doctor Watson’s flat had confirmed two things.

The first being that the need to watch out for his brother had gone too far.  The need to control the situation was, in fact, controlling him and that just wasn’t on.

The second thing it confirmed was that Sherlock and John were clearly pining for each other, still, and it was obvious that, apart from throwing the odd forlorn glance at the other when they weren’t looking and indulging in intimate fantasies of the other, neither were going to do anything about it.

If Mycroft could solve the second problem then that would more than likely solve the first because Mycroft did worry about his brother less when the good doctor was with him.

It seemed that there was only one thing left to do and since it hadn’t happened with the gentle nudging from all of their friends, (even Mary, from the grave, had subtly suggested that they belonged together), then Mycroft was going to have to give them a rough shove.

~o~

Sherlock hadn’t been up long.  In fact, he was still rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he sat, curled up against the cold, in his chair, when the doorbell downstairs rang.

As always, he ignored it.

The bell rang again -  _ impatient _ .  __ It must be for him, whoever it was.  

He still ignored it.

The bell was ringing for the third time, the unwanted visitor holding their finger down on the button this time, when Mrs Hudson’s door opened and Sherlock heard the woman go and answer the door.  With any luck, she’d still think Sherlock asleep and send whoever it was on their doorstep, away.

It was Christmas eve.  He didn’t want any clients. He had promised John he would join Rosie and he in looking at Christmas lights and go listen to the carols at the park later that night.

Neither activity sounded particularly appealing but the thought of spending uninterrupted time with the Watson’s was enough to make up for any tedium.

But, apparently, Sherlock’s morning wasn’t to be so lucky.  Not even 15 seconds after Mrs Hudson had answered the door, two - no, three - sets of heavy feet were making their way up to apartment B. 

“Mr Holmes” the first intruder said as he entered the living room.  Sherlock observed.

_ Clear military training, expensive suit, outline of a firearm underneath jacket, right hand side.  Arrogant.   _

Sherlock closed his eyes and rest his head back on the back of the chair.

“You can tell Mycroft to piss off” Sherlock ordered lazily with a half-hearted flick of his fingers.  It was far too early to be dealing with his brother.

“Gladly, sir” the agent replied, which Sherlock found somewhat surprising.  “But not before you come with us.”

Sherlock cracked open an eye and looked to the three men in his doorway.  He had no hope in hell of outrunning them, at least, not without sustaining some form of injury.  That didn’t mean he was going to make it easy for them.

“Not today, thank you.  Goodbye” and he closed his eye again and ignored the fact that they were still there.

“Mr Holmes, Mr Holmes has instructed that if you do not come peacefully, then we are to use force.”

This time, Sherlock lifted his head from the back of his armchair and opened both eyes so he could properly glare at the men before him.

“I’d like to see you try” he said with a challenging smirk.

~o~

“Seriously.  Drink plenty of water and steer away from acidic foods and drinks and that will clear up with-in 24 hours” John said to the man in front of him.  The look of relief was almost comical as he stood up left the consulting room.  

John was just typing up the notes when Rebecca buzzed the intercom.

“Doctor Watson.  There is a man here who says that it is urgent that he see you immediately and that to decline isn’t an option.” She sounded terrified.

John rolled his eyes.  Rebecca was new to the clinic and hadn’t yet been exposed to Sherlock Holmes. 

“Let the twat through” John answered, knowing Sherlock would hear the response.  “He knows the way.”  

“Yes Doctor Watson” She stammered.  Poor girl.  John was going to have to spend his lunch break buying her a big box of chocolate - and probably several bottles of wine - to make up for having to deal with Sherlock on what was already a busy and stressful day.

John smiled at the thought of whatever Sherlock could be up to now.  Obviously it wasn’t a case, there had been no text messages.  Knowing Sherlock, his parents had probably made an unannounced visit and he was looking for somewhere to hide.  Either that, or he had injured himself doing something stupid.

John didn’t get to think any further on it though, because right at that point the door to the consulting room opened and two very large men in suits, clearly concealing weapons, entered the room.  Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

“Doctor Watson” the one with the bright orange hair said.  “Mr Holmes has requested your presence.”

John tensed.  These were Mycroft’s men.  Mycroft never contacted John, unless...   
“What is wrong with Sherlock?” he asked, standing up from his desk and facing the other men in the room.

They looked confused at John’s line of questioning.

“Sherlock Holmes” John said slowly and clearly.  “Mycroft only contacts me when it concerns his brother so, I repeat, what has happened to Sherlock Holmes?”

The look of confusion didn’t pass.  “As far as we are aware the younger Holmes is fine, sir.”

That answer wasn’t good enough.  It wasn’t a certainty.  Picking up his phone, he dialed Mycroft’s personal phone. It answered half way through the first ring.  Mycroft was expecting his call.  That was not a good sign.

“What’s happened, Mycroft?” John didn’t give a shit that the worry was clearly evident in his voice.

A small sigh could be heard before Mycroft spoke.  “I assure you, John, there is nothing wrong.  I just need you to accompany the men who are currently in your office.”

The worry started to drain away.  Unfortunately, it was quickly being replaced with anger.

“So, nothing is the matter?”

“Not in so many words, no.”

“No one is in danger?”

“Not anyone that you are acquainted with, no.”

“There is no national crisis?”

“John, as much as you are, in fact, family, you do not have that level of clearance.”

“And Sherlock is fine?”

“I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be.”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose, a technique he used - a lot - to help calm down as he clamped his lips against the frustrated sigh that was trying to escape.

“So” John said with a forced patience.  “No one is seriously ill or injured, no one is dead, no one is being threatened or in any danger as far as I am concerned?” John clarified.

“Correct” Mycroft replied simply.

In other words, Sherlock wasn’t cooperating and Mycroft wanted John to ‘ _ talk him round _ ’.  The next sound that left John’s mouth wasn’t at all restrained.  

“Right, you know what?  Piss off, I’m busy” and he hung up the phone.

“Good morning, gents” John said, turning his attention back to the two men in his doorway.  “I hope you have a lovely Christmas.”

Joh sat back in his chair and turned his back to the men who were evidently not leaving and continued to type up his notes.  A few moments later, the red-head spoke again.

“Sir, Mycroft Holmes has ordered that if you do not accompany us willingly, then we are to take you by force.”

These words pushed Doctor John Watson down and pulled Captain Watson to the fore.  With his spine ramrod straight and his hands curled into fists, John swivelled his chair around to face the to men.

“I’d like to see you try” he growled.

~o~

“Mycroft, you fat twat, open the damn door!” Sherlock kicked at the metal door the two men had shoved him through, minutes earlier.  “I know your pudgy ears can hear me, you arse” he yelled.

When there was no answer, he kicked the door again, wincing as his bare foot hit the metal at the wrong angle, bending his toe back.

“Bastard” he muttered and hobbling in an overly exaggerated fashion, he made his way to the table in the centre of the room.

He had only been sitting in the uncomfortable metal chair, rubbing his sore foot and looking around for any means of escape, for a few minutes when the door opened again and, to Sherlocks almost pleasure, John was pushed through, just as unceremoniously as he, himself had been a few moments earlier.  John was cursing and swearing, not making any structured sentence, a clear indication that he was very pissed off.

Suddenly being locked up didn’t seem as bad.

When it was clear that no amount of swearing or threats in English, Pashto or - to Sherlock’s surprise - Russian was going to open the door, John turned to face Sherlock.

“Your brother is a bastard” he claimed.

“That statement is more true than you know” Sherlock replied flippantly.

John raised an eyebrow out of curiosity.

“He’d hate that you were made privy to this information, but maybe that’ll teach him for kidnapping us and locking us up, as if we haven’t had enough of  _ that _ already.”

John didn’t reply verbally, but the look on his face was clearly telling Sherlock to continue and to hurry up and get back on track.  Sherlock really did love how expressive John’s face was.

“Our parents weren’t married until three months after he was born, so he is, in fact, a bastard” he told John, his tone sombre.

The mood didn’t last long and within seconds the two of them were giggling uncontrollably.


	5. Mycroft Holmes Is Coming To Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two boys locked in a room. Things are bound to progress.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock and John had had enough time to sit in the little room and each tell their story about how they had been forcefully removed from their place of work or residence.  It explained why Sherlock was barefoot and still in his pyjamas.

What it didn’t explain was why they were there.

“My brother obviously feels that he hasn’t been over dramatic enough” Sherlock grumbled when neither of them could come up with any reason as to why they were there.  John had thrown out a few theories, which Sherlock had dismissed immediately.  Sherlocks theories hadn’t been any more plausible than Johns.

After what felt like at least half an hour, if not longer, the door finally opened and Mycroft Holmes stepped through, looking as professionally put together as always.  

“Gentlemen” he said with that pinched smile he wore when exposed to something unpleasant, like the general population.

“Explain Mycroft, or let us out.  We are busy men and don’t have time for whatever trivial problem the country is currently in, nor am in any mood to do leg work” Sherlock replied as way of a return greeting. 

“Yes, so busy that you had only just dragged yourself out of bed at 11:15.  What a pressing life you live, brother dear.”   
“Is that really why you dragged us both here, against our will” Sherlock snapped.  “So you could berate me on my lifestyle?  Let me save you any more trouble.  I couldn’t care less what you think.”

Mycroft let out an unimpressed exhale and looked to John, but damned if he was going to offer any support.  The expression John threw at Mycroft told him as much as well.

“It is clear” Mycroft started, leaning heavily on his umbrella.  Sherlock groaned.  They were in for a bit of a speech. “That the two of you need to do some clear, honest, communicating.  It has gone beyond ridiculous and is now just tedious watching you two dance around each other.”

Both John and Sherlock looked to each other, unable to make sense of Mycroft’s words, hoping the other could shed some light.  They couldn’t.

“The two of you are going to remain in this room until you sort yourselves out, once and for all.  It has been seven years, for crying out loud.”

“Hang on” John started, standing up and taking a step toward Mycroft.  ‘What do you mean,  _ remain in this room _ ?  I don’t know if it slipped your memory, but I do actually have a job to go to - you know, the one you forcefully dragged me away from - and more importantly, a child to look after once that job has finished for the day.  A child I,  _ we _ , actually had plans with.”

The smile Mycroft sent John was not at all comforting.  “Your place of employment has been informed that you are needed on government business and you have the rest of the day off.  As for Rosamund, don’t fear.  She hasn’t been forgotten.  She will still attend the carols in the park, as well as the viewing of Christmas lights with a more than qualified minder.”

Now John was really pissed off.  “I am not leaving my daughter with one of your minions, Mycroft.”

“Of course not, John.  That is why Mrs Martha Hudson has offered to look after her for the evening, so never fear.  She will be in good hands as soon as she leaves the daycare centre, which you may want to think about changing.  The director is an alcoholic on the verge of divorce.  Things could get rather stressful there, very soon.”

Silence settled across the room as John and Sherlock made sense of what Mycroft had said.

“You two may have all the time you need.  We’ll know when it’s time to open the door.  Have a good afternoon, gentlemen” he said and before John or Sherlock could react he had turned around and stepped out of the room, the door shutting behind him, the lock clicking in place.

“What the fuck was that all about?” John asked, looking from the locked door to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked furious.  “That was my brother, interfering where he has no right to interfere.”

“What was he banging on about?  Dancing around...communicating?”  John was confused.  He knew that he had been dancing around his feelings for Sherlock ever since, well, since quite early in their relationship, but he had kept those feelings heavily guarded.  There was no way Mycroft knew about those and as for dancing around each other, that would imply that Sherlock felt the same, which was absurd.  Sherlock most certainly didn’t think of John in any way beyond friendship and work partner.  

“My brother” Sherlock said through clenched teeth “Is under the impression that there is more to our relationship than mere friendship.  For once, in his nosey life, he has got it wrong.”

John felt the pinch in his chest acutely.  If he had had doubts about Sherlocks views on relationships, which he hadn’t, but if he had, those words had just dashed them.  Sherlock was only interested in a platonic relationship.

“Clearly” he managed to get out and was surprised that it came out steady, if a bit quietly.

The two of them sat back at the table and settled into a silence that wasn’t as comfortable as before.

“Lanced a particularly foul cyst today” John said to break the silence that was starting to make his skin itch.

Sherlock looked mildly interested.

“Green pus and everything.  The guy had ignored it for over a month, just under his chin.  He decided to get it looked at when a date told him that it was making her feel physically ill and put her off her food.  It was huge.”

“Infection?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded.  “ I expect pseudomonas aeruginosa, but won’t know for sure until the tests come back.  God it was vile.  I almost gagged, and that’s saying something, since I lived with you and your mad experiments for eighteen months.”

“Don’t suppose you kept any?” Sherlock asked, sounding hopeful.

“What doctor, in their right mind, would keep bodily fluids from a patient.  That would be breaking so many rules and protocols.”

“Is it in your desk drawer?”

“It’s in my desk drawer.”

Sherlock grinned.

John grinned back.

~o~

Sherlock, despite being locked in a room to which only his brother had the key, was enjoying himself.  

It had been an age since he and John had just had time to talk about nothing in particular.  

Sherlock had been furious at his brothers words when he had done a shit job of explaining why they were there.  He was abusing too much of his privilege that came with overprotective older brother.  

Sherlock knew that Mycroft knew of his feelings for John.  His fever induced hallucinations, after Serbia, had let that particular cat out of the bag, but nothing had ever been said, even if his brother had stopped totting his ‘ _ Sentiment is a chemical defect _ ’ crap as often.  

But spending three hours, locked in a room with John, with nothing to do but talk, was rather cathartic.  He hadn’t felt so relaxed in quite a while.  

They had chatted about non-important things.  Discussed people they knew.  Made plans for the new year.  

John was lying on the table, sick of sitting on the uncomfortable chairs, stretching his back.  Sherlock listened as it cracked three times and he realised that neither of them were getting any younger.  

Maybe, his idiot brother was right.  Maybe, it was time that John knew how he really felt about him.

Sherlock sneered.  No, it was a stupid idea.  Taking relationship advice from Mycroft was like actually asking Anderson for a detailed description of a crime scene. 

“The lease on the flat comes up next month” John said, somewhat out of the blue as he relaxed back on the table, letting his legs hang over the edge.  If he stayed like that too long, he was going to lose feeling in his feet.  

“Hmmm” Sherlock replied, not knowing what to say in response.  He knew what he wanted to say, but it would only be shot down.  

“Was thinking of moving, maybe a bit closer to, well, somewhere a bit more central.  We are a bit out of the way, really, where we are.”

“You are” Sherlock agreed.  He had always thought so.  It took far too long for John to come to him, or vice versa.  

“I want somewhere where Rosie will be comfortable, safe.  Familiar.”

Sherlock knew the perfect place, but there was only one spare room.  Not at all practical.  

“I know someone” Sherlock started, the words feeling like sawdust in his mouth.  “They own a real estate company.  I could get them to put out feelers, offer you a good deal.”

John didn’t reply, Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the man.  He looked disappointed.  Had Sherlock said the wrong thing?  Did he not want Sherlocks help?  Was this one of those things that one had to do on their own to prove that they were independent?  

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair, frustrated.  This was why he didn’t socialise.  Too many unwritten rules.  Stupid, pointless rules.

Why couldn’t people just say what they meant or asked for what they wanted.  Life would be easier if they didn’t beat around the bush and hide behind social cues.  The answer would be yes or no.  Take it or leave it.  It may not be ideal, but at least everyone would know where they stood. 

“Do you have any idea of where you want to move?” Sherlock asked, to get his mind off of the frustration that was growing inside of him.  

“I had an place in mind” John said, tilting his head back to look at Sherlock.  “But, there is already someone living there and I don’t think he’d want a toddler running around.”

“He’s an idiot” Sherlock replied.  And who was this person John was talking about.  It wasn’t Garry, he only had a small one bedroom hovle, since the wife took everything in the divorce.  Mike had no room with his brood of kids that kept growing and growing.  John didn’t have any other friends.  At least, not in London. 

Sherlock felt the colour draining from his face.  John was thinking of moving out of London, away from Sherlock.  He was going to take Rosie and….but that wasn’t right.  He had wanted to move somewhere central and familiar to the younger Watson.  That left two places.  Molly’s and Baker Street and John had said  _ he’d _ not want a toddler around, so that ruled Molly out.

Sherlock stared at the door in front of him, running all of the facts through his head.  John had set up a makeshift nursery in the top room.  John spent more time at Baker Street than he did at his own home.  John wanted to be closer and more central.  John was thinking of moving in to a flat that already had an occupant.  A male occupant.  John was talking about Baker Street.  

“You are always welcome back home” Sherlock said turning to face John, taking a step forwards so he was leaning over John.  “Both you and Rosie.  Always.”

John smiled.  “I was hoping you would say that.”

"But, there is only one spare room” Sherlock stated, the hope at almost having John back at Baker Street, flaring out.

“I don’t mind sharing” John said simply, leaving the implication hanging.

He didn’t mind sharing.  Sharing with Rosie, which was the most likely option, or Sharing with Sherlock, which was the more preferred option.

Sherlock looked down at Johns upside down face, trying to read him, but it was bloody impossible.  

“John…”  Sherlock wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.  He knew he needed to say something, he was certain something was changing between them, he just wasn't’ sure what it was or how he should react.

“Yes, Sherlock.  The answer is yes.”

Sherlock hadn’t actually asked a question and his brain was unhelpfully providing that John was happy to share with Rosie.  Another part of his body (several parts in fact) were telling him that John was taking the second option.  The less likely option.  

Sherlock stared down at John for a few more seconds before deciding to blow it all. He was either going to make the biggest mistake of his life, or he was going to take the most monumental step in his life.

Without thinking about it any more, lest he think himself out of it, Sherlock placed his hands on the table, one on either side of Johns shoulders, and bent down and placed his lips over Johns.  

The response from John had been instant and so unexpected that Sherlock pulled away.  He didn’t get very far before there was a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him back down.  Pulling him back into the kiss; a kiss that Sherlock was happy to continue and deepen.

The two men were so lost in each other that neither heard the click of the lock being released or the sound of the door opening.  

It would be a further fifteen minutes before they realised that they were free to leave their cell.


	6. So Be Good For Goodness Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock + John = Blissful Happiness.  
> It is only fair they thank the man who finally brought them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was totally intending on having this chapter up yesterday, as a Christmas present to you all, but then there was presents and breakfast and naps and lunch and family and more presents and dinner and, oh my god, so much food and then more family and I was just exhausted, so here it is now, all wrapped up in a sparkly red bow, with a tag that says "Merry Christmas!"

~~~~~~~~~~

John was happy.  Happier than he had been in a long time.  Actually, he was fairly certain to say that he was the happiest he had ever been.

The day had been a rollercoaster of emotions.  What had started out to be a normal day had turned into one of anger and frustration at Mycroft’s antics.

Sitting with Sherlock in a cell for three and a half hours had, at first, been tense, especially after Mycroft’s visit, but had soon become relaxing and even enjoyable.  The easy banter they had so easily picked up when they first met was still strong and the level of comfort, John hadn’t felt since Sherlock jumped off of the roof, had easily slid back into place.  It was nice, comfortable, familiar.  And John realised he had wanted it back permanently.  It was why he had decided to take the risk.  To hint at moving back to Baker Street.  

John had lied.  His lease wasn’t up at his old flat due to the fact that it was owned by him and Mary - the sort of fact that Sherlock never would have bothered himself with knowing, , but it had been a way to break into the topic. It had been true that he wanted to be closer to Sherlock.  At first, the idea of being so far away from Baker Street had been appealing.  But then, Sherlock had come back.

And there was the problem that there was only one spare room, but John would make that work somehow.

He had been almost 100% certain that Sherlock would accept them back at the flat, but there was still that niggling doubt that maybe he wouldn’t .  It was why he had hinted, waiting for Sherlock to connect the dots and as expected, he had.

What hadn’t been expected was the kiss.  Although John had secretly hoped, for far longer than he’d like to admit, he had never actually thought it would ever happen.  

But it had, and then some more.  It was why now, he was lying in Sherlock's bed, sweaty, sticky and ridiculously relaxed.  And happy.  

Sherlock, on the other hand, appeared to be not so much.

“ _ How _ ” he seethed, poking and pushing John, apparently trying to mould John into a shape more comfortable to lay on.  John couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed.   “How did that...emotionally constipated twat, see it before I did.”

John grinned.

“Stop smiling” Sherlock snapped, flopping down, heavily onto John, his head on his stomach, and then wriggling around so he was on his back, instead of his front.

“Nope” John replied, grin still plastered on his face.

Sherlock huffed and even with his eyes shut, John knew he had a pout on those lips ( _ those wonderful, talented lips _ ) and his arms crossed over his chest like a petulant little child and still, he couldn’t bring himself to care.  

“He’ll be bragging about this forever” Sherlock groused.  “ _ If it weren’t for me, brother dear _ ” Sherlock impersonated poorly, exaggerating the plummy tones “ _ You’d still be wallowing in self-pity.  You should be thank.. _ .Oh!”

John’s eyes snapped open.  That ‘ _ Oh! _ ’ sounded far too happy.  Genuinely, and unabashedly gleeful.  John didn’t like it.  Not one little bit.

“We should thank Mycroft” Sherlock said, sitting up suddenly, taking the blankets with him.  John gasped at the sudden hit of cold air on his pleasantly warm skin and grabbed for the blankets.  It was no use.  Sherlock had dragged them off the bed as he stood up.  

John wanted to cry out in protest, but he was stopped, mouth open to berate the bloody moody git, when his eyes got stuck on the bum that was moving across the room to dig through the wardrobe.  It really was a nice bum.

“Put that on” Sherlock said, chucking something at John, causing John to tear his gaze away from Sherlocks backside as his hand reached up to pluck the item sailing towards him.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked, holding up a green felt Father Christmas hat with white fluff trimming and a gold bell on the end.

“Not important right now” Sherlock replied, pulling a complementing red one on his own head.

John really didn’t like where this was going.

~o~

Mycroft carried the parcel to his office and sat back down at his desk, where he had been before he was interrupted by the doorbell ringing.

“What have you go there?” came a voice from the armchair by the fireplace. 

“It seems my brother has decided it is time to start exchanging gifts” Mycroft hummed quietly, grabbing the letter opener and carefully slicing through the tape holding the box together.

Mycroft had no idea what was going to be in the box, nor when his brother had time to put it together and send it, albeit via his charming little network of vagrants.  He would have thought he’d currently be wrapped up in bed with his army-doctor, after all, they had a lot of time to make up for.  

A grimace crossed Mycroft’s face at the thought of what could be in the box.

He folded back the flaps of the box and was surprised to find a bottle of good vintage wine nestled next to a box of Martha Hudson’s mince pies.

He lifted the bottle up to have a good look, as his guest got up from the chair and slowly walked over to stand behind him.  

It was then that Mycroft spied the envelope in the bottom of the box, the words  _ Thank You _ , scrawled in his brothers messy handwriting.

Placing the wine on his desk, he pulled the envelope out and slid the contents out from between the folds of paper.

“Oh, good lord.”  Mycroft looked down at the photo in his hands.  Looking back up at him were a delusionally happy John and Sherlock, sitting in Sherlock’s bed, John against the headboard, arms draped over Sherlocks shoulders, Sherlock between his legs, leaning against the doctor’s chest, both completely naked except for the ridiculous christmas hats placed on their heads.

Thankfully, there was an artfully handwritten sign, strategically placed on his brothers crossed legs.  

“MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

“Well, that could have been worse” came a huffed laugh, as arms draped over his shoulders and a chin rested on his shoulder.

“Hmmm” Mycroft hummed in agreeance.

“We should probably do the same.” 

Mycroft looked around, a frown in his face.

“Well” Gregory said, a mischievous glint, that Mycroft had learnt meant trouble of the most delicious kind, in his eyes.  “After all, if it wasn’t for the fact that he told me to go check on you, after the incident with your sister, we may never have gotten together ourselves.” 

Mycroft shivered at the thought of not having his Gregory, of letting him pass by yet again.

“And since he still hasn’t deduced that we are actually an item, it would be one hell of a way to announce it.  Just think of the strop it will send him into when he realises it has been nearly six months and he never cottoned on.”

Gregory’s grin was infectious and it always brought out the immature side of Mycroft, the childish side that he had put away a long time ago.

“It has merit” he said, letting Gregory’s lips brush over his own.

“You know what else has merit?” Gregory asked.  Mycroft’s  brows rose in question.

“Your bed.”

“That makes absolutely no sense, Gregory.”

The man before him smiled even more.  “It will once I get you there.”

Mycroft allowed himself to pulled from the desk, away from the work he had promised himself he would finish that night, to be led by the man he loved, up the stairs and to their room.  

After all, he too had a lot of lost time to make up for.


End file.
